


Between the Lines

by teand



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-20
Updated: 2008-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:04:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teand/pseuds/teand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Sam and Dean got their protection tattoos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Lines

"If we're going to do this, it can't be with the end of a guitar string and ink dipped from a ball point pen."

Dean risked taking his eyes off the road -- barely visible behind sheets of blowing rain -- to raise an eyebrow in his brother's general direction. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Sam shrugged. "It's one of the traditional ways to do prison tats."

"And you know that how?"

"Chainsaw Harris."

That pulled his eyes off the road again. He knew all Sam's tells and it didn't look like Sam was shitting him. "Who?"

"My roomie back when you thought it was a good idea to send us to prison? Big guy? Liked to rob convenience stores with a chainsaw? Had 'this way up' inked into his sternum? Which, all thing considered," Sam continued after a thoughtful pause, "wasn't a bad idea."

"And you two bonded?"

"He did a little show and tell. You don't want to know what he had inked into his dick."

Dean shuddered. "Good call. I also don't want you to know what he had inked into his dick."

"Yeah, well..." Sam snorted. "...you can't always get what you want. The point is, we need someone who knows what they're doing."

"Really?" He flipped off the SUV roaring past, its fantail adding to the burden on the Impala's wipers. "Because I thought we'd head to Jersey, get liquored up, wander into Bud's Ink Shop, and hope Bud's not too stoned. Jesus, Sam, we're talking about having occult protections etched into living tissue -- our living tissue, or more importantly, my living tissue -- so I'd think someone who knows what they're doing is a given."

"So take the next off ramp. We need to pick up I95. We can be in Vegas in six hours."

"No."

"Dean..."

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "Not Glinda."

"She knows what she's doing."

"Dude, she hates me."

The seat creaked as Sam slouched down as far as the seatbelt and his knees allowed. "Maybe because you call her Glinda."

***

They parked around the corner from the studio, Sam reluctantly agreeing that, all things considered, it might be a good idea to keep their arrival quiet for as long as possible.

"Because we do not want to give her time to bake a cake," Dean muttered as he got out of the car.

Shrugging the strap of his bag up onto his shoulder as he straightened, Sam turned and stared across the dusty, black roof. "What are you talking about?"

"They knew we were coming so they baked a cake." Dean paused expectantly, and when Sam shrugged, sighed. "Sam, seriously, I worry about you sometimes." Squinting behind his dark glasses -- the sun shone painfully bright over Vegas right up until it set and the shadows took over -- he checked the narrow side street for threats then, when the most dangerous thing he could see was a faded poster for a drive through wedding chapel, he headed for the corner. "I still think this is a bad idea. She lied to Dad."

"She lied to keep him from owing her a favor," Sam reminded him, falling into step.

"She does this for us, we'll owe her."

"I've got it covered."

"Of course you do."

Being that the studio was in Vegas, albeit off the strip in a grubby addendum to the bright lights most people thought of as Vegas, the sign on the door announced that Forever and a Day was open for business from four to midnight.

Dean checked his watch. Four thirty. "Damn." When Sam reached for the door, he closed a hand around his wrist. "It's not too late to head to Jersey."

"Dean."

"All right. Fine." He released his hold and held up both hands in surrender. "But if this goes south, if Glinda whammies us, I'm going to ride you about it for the rest of my life."

"Four months," Sam growled. "I'll cope."

"Sam..." But Sam had yanked open the door and disappeared into a blast of air conditioning and funky smells. Dean had no choice but to follow. He'd regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. Lately, Sam'd been kind of sensitive when it came to jokes about death. His death. And yeah, Dean could understand that. Shit, if anyone could understand that, he could. But that was what he did. He whistled into the wind. Mostly to keep from screaming.

Sam was standing by the scarred wooden counter that separated the reception area from the actual studio. His hands were curled into fists on the counter top and Dean had a feeling that if he flicked a quarter at that broad back, it would actually ping as it bounced off.

Moving in to stand beside him, Dean laid his hand lightly on Sam's right shoulder, feeling the heat rising up through the sweat damp t-shirt. He squeezed once, twice. Forcing his apology under Sam's skin. Felt muscle begin to relax under his palm. Saw Sam's hands slowly unfold. He squeezed one more time and let his arm fall back to his side as a bottle redhead came out of the back holding a steaming mug of coffee in one tattooed hand.

She wasn't young and the blaze of the cheap dye job accentuated more than camouflaged the years. It had to be, Dean realized, her way of flipping the finger at age and he found himself reluctantly admiring her attitude. Still, there was something just wrong about that many wrinkles and an eyebrow stud.

Her eyes widened. "Christ on crutches, if it isn't Sam and Dean Winchester."

"Liz."

Dean opened his mouth, coughed as the back of Sam's fist slammed into his stomach, and waved silently as he fought to get his breath.

Liz snickered then suddenly sobered. "I heard about your daddy, boys. My condolences. John Winchester was an obsessed son of a bitch but I liked him. No surprise Hell couldn't hold him."

"You heard about that?" Sam sounded properly cautious. Good. A little late maybe, but good.

"I hear about a lot of things." She nodded toward the door. "Flip the sign then come on back. You tell me your story, the whole story mind because damnation's hanging around the two of you like smoke, and I'll tell you if I can do the ink you came for."

"How do you know we came for ink?" Dean asked as Sam moved back toward the door.

She sighed and shook her head. "You're in a tattoo parlor, dumbass. If you came for an ice cream sundae, you're in the wrong fucking place."

***

Sam started by showing Liz the design, carefully opening the ancient book and sliding it across the table.

Liz took a long swallow of her coffee. "Over your hearts," she said. "Single color, nothing too ornate; the ink's not a problem. Making more than art though, that's going to take some doing." Bracing her elbows on the table to either side of the book, she scowled at them. "Now spill. 'Cause if you're pulling me into something nasty, I want a chance to tell you to fuck off up front."

Dean let Sam do the talking -- not that he could have stopped him from talking without knocking him cold. Once Sam made up his mind about something, he couldn't be shifted and he'd made up his mind they were getting those tattoos. Dean could see where they'd come in handy, a charm to keep from being possessed permanently etched into their skin, and, if forced, he'd even admit Liz was the best choice to do the job but he didn't much like sharing the events of the last year.

Credit where credit was due, Sam stuck to the facts. And if Liz's bloodshot old eyes saw past the terse retelling of a death and a deal and a Wednesday that nearly lead to damnation, well Dean had to give her credit too for the best poker face he'd ever seen. She could have been listening to Sam read the drive-through menu at Taco Bell.

Which reminded him, he was getting hungry.

She didn't look at him until Sam finished talking then she moved her head -- her whole head not just her eyes which was creepy as fuck -- and stared at him long and hard. He stared right back at her, chin up and a _do your worst bitch_ smirk plastered on his face.

A sudden sharp pain in his side snapped his attention back to his brother. "What the hell was _that_ for?" he demanded rubbing the spot where Sam's remarkably bony elbow had been jabbed hard into his ribs.

"He's suggesting you be polite," Liz answered before Sam could. "But I'll let it go this time." She sighed and rubbed at the pattern inked into the back of her right hand. It looked vaguely familiar and Dean tried to get a look at just what exactly it was but had no success. "You've got some powerful enemies," she said at last. "I do this for you and odds are high, they won't be thinking too kindly of yours truly. Then again, they do say you can judge someone's worth by the caliber of the folk they piss off and that puts you boys right up there with the angels. Thursday."

Dean's, "What?" and Sam's "Full moon." overlapped.

She answered Sam. "I don't usually hold with all that tree of life tote bag crap but this is one of those times when we need all the bells and whistles. Besides, Thursday's as early as Helen'll be able to make it."

"Helen?"

"My granddaughter. You want both tats to work the same way, they need to be done at the same time and I'm good but I'm not that good."

"Today's Tuesday," Dean pointed out.

"And they say Sam's the smart one."

He ignored her just like he ignored Sam's snort. "What do we do until Thursday night?"

Her lip curled as she shoved her chair back and stood. "Laundry might be an idea. Showers wouldn't hurt. You two smell like you've been living out of a car. Stay the hell out of the casinos. You want to run into a demon in Vegas, that's where they'll be and you need to duck and cover until this is over." Rummaging in a drawer she pulled out a bulging manila envelope, weighed it in one hand, and tossed it to Sam. "No food from sunrise Thursday until you show up here at moonrise. Drink as much of that tea as you want but remember once we start, we keeping going until we're done so take that whole no stopping to piss into account."

"Payment," Sam began.

"After. We'll talk about payment once we know it took. Now, if you don't mind, I've got a business to run."

Dean had his hand on the door, Sam close behind him when she yelled, "Oh and take the edge off before you get here. I don't want either of you popping wood while I'm trying to work."

"That is one classy lady," Dean muttered, leading the way back to the car.

***

They finally found a motel an hour or so out into the desert that looked like it would do. The pool had water in it...

_"No." Dean kept driving past the first motel and the concrete pit that may have once held water. "I am not spending three days in the desert without a pool."_

...the sign said there were laundry facilities on the premises...

_"Hey, I'm not saying I agree with Glinda, I'm just saying that t-shirt you're wearing smells like something I dug up outside Cedar Rapids."_

...and there was a diner up next to the highway with two eighteen wheelers in the gravel parking lot.

"We could be in Los Angeles in what... six or seven hours?"

"Dean."

"Fine." He pulled up in front of the office. It used to be when Sam said his name, he was asking. "But don't come crying to me to me when you find scorpions in the shower."

"At least you're not driving the only classic car in the lot."

Dean peered out the dusty window along the line of Sam's pointing finger. "Dude. That's a Pinto! Don't even."

 

***

The room was surprisingly nondescript. No motif. No theme. It was just a room. The walls were beige. The carpet was brown. The bedspreads were perfectly normal brown and beige stripes.

Sam shook his head as he dropped his bag on the bed by the window. "This is, uh..."

"Weird."

"Yeah."

There were no scorpions in the shower. Although Dean let Sam shower first just to make sure.

Since Broward County, they'd stopped closing the bathroom door when they showered and more than once -- usually on a Tuesday or a Wednesday -- Dean had pulled back the curtain to find Sam standing by the sink. And the first time it happened, he hadn't either made a girly shriek. It was a totally manly exclamation of surprise.

With any luck, Sam'd have time to work through his abandonment issues and, if not, well, it wasn't like Dean didn't get where he was coming from.

The diner was as good as the parked trucks indicated. Prices were reasonable, portions were large, and Marlene, the waitress, was an accomplished flirt.

"Ah boys," she sighed, pulling their change from the cash register, "if I was only twenty years younger."

"You'd be still be too much woman for us," Dean told her.

"Got that right," she purred.

Back at the room, Dean glanced at the bags piled on the one bed.

"We don't have to," Sam told him and Jesus but Dean hated that tone in his voice.

"It's not like it's a hardship, Sam. But I swear to you: your gigantic ass pushes me out of bed one more time and I'm leaving you tied to the bedframe all night."

Dimples flashed. "Kinky."

"Bite me."

And flashed again. "Kinkier."

Again since Broward County, if Sam was going to sleep at all on a Tuesday or a Wednesday night, he had to do it sharing a bed with Dean. And while Dean was willing to do anything for Sam -- and he figured he'd pretty much proved that conclusively -- neither of them were small men and the establishments they tended to frequent were more the two double rather than two queen kind. Sam, well, Sam thrashed.

Didn't help that nothing kinky ever went on. Dean figured that if he was going to be horizontally manhandled he should at least be getting some but no, not on a Tuesday or Wednesday. Not anymore.

Wednesday morning, Sam did laundry while Dean cleaned out the inside of the car. While he hated to admit it, Liz had a point; his baby definitely smelled a bit funky.

"Dude, do you have any idea how long those donuts have been in there?"

Dean crunched a stale crueller, swallowed, and grinned. "Just think of them as redneck biscoti."

Sam shuddered. "Okay, one, I can't believe we're related. And two, how the hell do you even know what a biscoti is?"

"Food channel. A man can't watch porn and baseball his whole life. Sometimes it's the best thing on at two am."

"I didn't know..."

"That sometimes I watch the food channel? Sam, it's no big deal."

Except everything was a big deal these days.

Wednesday afternoon, Sam did more laundry...

"Jesus, Dean, these jeans are so stiff I'm afraid they'll break if I push them into the machine." He held them out at arm's length between thumb and forefinger. "What the hell did you do to them."

Dean grinned around a mouthful of turkey sandwich, extra mayo. "Not to them. In them."

It took Sam a minute then he groaned. "Didn't need to know that."

"As I recall, you were annoyingly smug about it at the time."

...and Dean worked on restoring the Impala's glossy black finish.

Wednesday evening, they cleaned guns, sharpened knives, packed shells with rocksalt -- housekeeping Winchester style. Dean tried not to watch the efficient way Sam worked. Tried not to think about how much his movements had changed since Broward County. Tried not to think about why.

Thursday morning, he woke up to the smell of coffee and bacon. Rolled over and realized it wasn't even light out. "What the fuck, Sam, it's the middle of the night!"

"No food after sunrise." Sam moved the duffle bag of weapons onto the floor and set two Styrofoam containers on the table. "And I did not want to spend the day listening to you bitch. We've got forty-five minutes to eat."

Eggs over easy just the way he liked them, bacon, sausage, homefries, greasy toast, and coffee. Sopping up the last bit of yoke, Dean leaned back and belched. "You're gonna make someone a fine wife someday, Sammy."

"Fuck you."

But he was almost smiling so Dean just patted his should as he passed. "Maybe later. Right now, since we don't have to be anywhere until the middle of the night, I'm going back to bed."

"Moonrise is at 5:18."

"Okay, fine, since we don't have to be anywhere until late afternoon and it's a quarter after six in the morning, I'm going back to bed." Tossing back the covers, he stretched out on the bottom sheet, scratched under the waistband of his boxerbriefs, and belched again. "You could always join me."

Sam snorted and opened his laptop. "Yeah, well, as tempting as that is, I'll pass. I've got things to do."

"Porn doesn't surf itself," Dean said agreeably as he closed his eyes. As long as he couldn't see what Sam was doing, he didn't _know_ what Sam was doing. "You run into some hot three-way stuff, save it for me."

The next time he woke up, Sam was gone. The laptop was still there though, open and running _something_ \-- safer if he didn't look and that meant he couldn't check to see if Busty Asian Beauties had posted any new shots and thank-you so much Sam. He'd probably left it running for that very reason, the little shit.

There was a note stuck to the door. _I've gone for a run_ had been crossed out and replaced by _I'm in the pool_.

They didn't used to be quite so soccer mom about this kind of crap. If a grown man wanted to go for a run or have a beer or play a game of pool or hell, go for a swim less than thirty feet from the freakin' motel room, he shouldn't have to tell his brother about it. But lately, well, Sam had gotten kind of obsessive about that togetherness thing and a note on the door was a huge improvement when it came to gaining back a bit of personal space.

Dean could see him from the window, methodically swimming lengths. Short lengths given the size of the pool compared to the size of Sam. Rubbing his tongue over his teeth, Dean weighed the pros and cons of joining him against scraping the remains of breakfast out of his mouth and headed for the bathroom.

Might as well shower while he was in there.

When he emerged, Sam still wasn't back so he dragged on a pair of jeans and opened the door just in time to see Sam pull himself up onto the side of the pool. Wet skin glistened. Water droplets traced the curve of muscles with a sun-kissed gleam of gold. A line of dark hair drew the eye to the edge of the low slung, ratty shorts. When he pushed his dripping bangs back off his face, he incited a sudden stream of appreciative Spanish from the two housekeepers standing by the supply cart.

The younger one was kind of cute but the older one -- Dean shuddered. His Spanish was a little rusty but it wasn't like she was using big words. Damn. Middle-aged women had seriously filthy minds. And some good ideas.

"Sam!" Sam's head jerked up at his tone. The growl that said _this is not a drill_. "Inside. Now."

Scooping up his towel, Sam ran for the open door. Turned as Dean followed him in, closed it, and actually managed to say, "What's the..." before Dean slammed him up against the cheap wood and licked at the water running down his neck, his fingers forcing the button of his shorts through wet denim.

"Dean, I..."

"Later." He caught Sam's mouth with his, moaned as he licked into the heat and felt Sam's fingers clutch at his arms. Sam's lower lip caught between his teeth, he pulled away to the edge of pain, then let go and followed a drop of water down Sam's chest, sucking the nipple it crossed into his mouth, one hand rising to flick the other with a thumb nail.

"Oh God..."

It sounded like a prayer. And Dean had every intention of answering it.

Dropping to his knees, he slid the now open shorts off Sam's hips and dragged them down the long, long line of his legs until he could nudge one foot up and out and then nudge those legs just a little further apart as he chewed his way up the inside of Sam's thigh until he could nuzzle his face into the wet, wiry curls at Sam's crotch.

He wrapped one hand around Sam's cock and felt it harden in his grip as he sucked the water from the swimming pool off first one ball and then the other.

Sam's breathing started to get a little ragged and his hips began to rock forward, small jerky motions he was clearly fighting to control.

Dean licked across the top of Sam's cock, dipping his tongue into the slit. He licked his lips, tasted chlorine and Sam, and slid his mouth down to meet his fist. And back. And down. Then he removed his fist and slid down spit and precome until his forehead pressed against the hard/soft planes of Sam's stomach and he was swallowing around the blunt pressure in the back of his throat. Thumbs rubbing gently in the sinful hollow where hipbones rose out of muscle, he tugged Sam gently forward, then back, giving him permission to move.

He had the sudden image, as he swallowed and sucked and begged inarticulately for harder and faster, of how he must look on his knees at his brother's feet. Like a supplicant. There to worship. And he saw a horde of demons on their knees, their dark eyes turned up to Sam. And he saw himself, his own eyes dark, pleading for a chance to taste just once more...

Sam's hand closed around the back of his head, his hips snapped forward.

Dean swallowed what he could, let the rest spill out of his mouth, and sagged panting against Sam's thigh. A firm finger tucked under his chin and lifted his head until concerned hazel eyes could search his face.

"You okay?"

"I'm good." He was so not mentioning that little fantasy to Sam. The last thing he needed to do was admit how it had affected him. In fact, he had every intention of wiping it from his memory.

"Just so you know, I'm not washing those jeans again."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch."

***

Dean took a mouthful of Liz's tea and nearly spit it back into the mug. "Tastes like goat piss!"

"I don't want to know how you know that," Sam muttered.

***

Around two thirty, Dean tossed the bottle of lube at Sam's head and was moderately impressed when he snatched it out of the air.

"What?" he snarled, gaze never leaving the laptop screen.

"We were told to take the edge off and we have to leave in ninety minutes if we want to make the studio by moonrise."

When Sam finally looked up, Dean dropped to his hands and knees on the bed and grinned over his shoulder. "You go first and I'll supply the big finish."

***

"All I'm saying is that if you wanted to fuck me, you needed to show a little more self control."

"Self control?" Dean snarled as the Impala roared around a sun-bleached van. "How the hell am I supposed to show self control when you're pounding me into the God damned mattress? You were slamming the bed into the wall and the damned thing was bolted to the floor! And stop looking so fucking smug about it!"

***

Liz's granddaughter, Helen, was somewhere between twenty and forty with natural red dreadlocks -- well, the color was natural but Dean had no idea how the hell she made the dreads -- and what looked like a scene from Star Trek tattooed over her entire left arm.

"It's the Crab Head Nebulae," she said when she caught him staring.

She had enough piercings airport security was probably an issue and was definitely not wearing a bra under her black wife-beater.

"Both nipples," Dean murmured into Sam's ear as they went into the actual studio.

Sam rolled his eyes but Dean caught him looking when Helen followed them in.

The studio had been emptied of everything and a circle of sand drawn out on the worn, vinyl floor. The two stations had been set up on opposite sides of the circle each with it's own power supply and a folded white towel holding the guns, three needles, a small spray bottle, and a stack of paper towels.

Dean took a step back and found himself stopped by Sam's ridiculously broad chest. "That's a little basic isn't it?"

"I wanted to slam the ink into you using a piece of sharpened bamboo," Liz told him from the doorway. "But Helen thought it would take too long. This," she continued, pushing by them and holding up two largish vials of dark blue liquid, "is the ink. It's not quite ready. If we're going to make this work, really work, it's going to need blood."

"Sam..."

Sam's hand closed over his shoulder. "How much?"

Liz shrugged. "Three drops."

"It's not much, Dean."

"Blood magic, Sam. That's never good."

"It's not," Sam began but Liz cut him off.

"I don't like what you're implying, Dean," she said softly. "My soul is more my own than yours is, boy, and I'd thank you to remember that. If this ink is going to provide the protection you need, it has to be bound and blood is the only way. You don't trust me, you haul ass out of here right now."

Sam grip on his shoulder tightened. _Trust me._

Three drops from each of them, the hole jabbed into the tip of the second finger of the left hand with a tiny silver dagger.

Sam finished first. Liz capped his vial of ink and handed it to Helen who slowly rocked it back and forth. Dean watched the third drop fall into the second vial then stuck his finger into his mouth.

"All right, strip."

"Strip?" Sam's voice had grown distinctly squeaky. Dean snickered.

Liz sighed, rocking Dean's blood into the ink. "Take off your clothes."

"All of them?"

"All of them."

T-shirt half over his head, Dean thought of something and paused. "You uh, you won't be stripping down too, will you?"

"I'd be insulted by that," Liz told him, poking him in the stomach, "but I chose to believe you're afraid you couldn't trust your reaction if I was working on you wearing skin."

"You'll be working on me?"

Liz snorted. "You don't think I'd trust you naked that close to my granddaughter do you?" As Sam continued to stand, fully clothed and blushing, she sighed. "I'd say you've got nothing we haven't seen before but I don't like to make assumptions. We'll leave until you're sitting down, hands covering the interesting bits." She winked at him as she waved Helen out of the room. "Nice big hands you got there, Sam."

"It's interesting," Sam murmured as they settled in the circle, "how I'm supposed to be some kind of demonic anti-Christ and you're the one she doesn't trust with her granddaughter."

"Reputation's all a man has, Sammy."

He was still shifting from cheek to cheek, trying to find a comfortable position when the women came back still slowly rocking the vials of ink. He cupped his hands over his genitals and tried not to think of scary old ladies holding sharp objects.

Liz waved Helen over in front of Sam. "This is how it's going to work," she said dropping to her knees and setting the ink down. She picked up the top paper towel, sprayed it, and swabbed at Dean's chest just under the circular burn scar the Bender's hot poker had left, her touch surprisingly gentle. "We'll put needle to flesh at the same time and we'll finish at the same time. You two will remain silent." She pressed the design, printed on a piece of tissue paper, against the damp skin. "Completely silent."

"You're not going to light candles or burn incense or something?" Dean asked, chin tucked in as he studied the faint blue lines.

"Oh yeah, fill the room with smoke; that'd be real fucking sanitary."

"Chant? Sing?"

"Window dressing. Room's as safe as we can make it. The time is right. All else is will. Now brace your back against your brother's and shut-up." Ink reservoir filled, she rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath. "On three, Helen."

"One, two then go on three? Or one, two, three go?" Dean wondered.

"All right, that's..."

"It's a fair question, Nana," Helen pointed out quickly.

A muscle jumped in Liz's jaw as Dean flashed her a sunny smile.

"One, two, three, go!"

It didn't hurt as much as he thought it was going to. He was more conscious of Sam's bare back, warm and a little damp where it pressed up against his than he was of the bite of the needle forcing ink under his skin. As the endorphins started to kick in, his eyes closed, and he became hyper aware of every tiny shift in Sam's body. Wondered if Sam could feel him the same way. Suddenly understood why Liz had told them to take the edge off.

And then, just for a moment, he felt invincible. Safe. He felt Sam's arms around him. His arms around Sam. Knew that Sam would do whatever he had to in order to protect him. Knew that Sam knew he'd do the same.

"That's it then."

The buzz of the guns had shut off.

Dean opened his eyes and looked down. It looked just like the design in the book.

Liz grinned. "What did you expect, boy? A hula dancer?" She picked up a packet of vitamin E cream, ripped off the top and spread it over the new tattoo. "Put your pants on and come into the kitchen. We'll tape you up there."

She waited until Helen came around to help her to her feet, then kicked away a bit of the circle. "You can talk now."

Dean found he didn't actually have much to say. He had no idea how long they'd been sitting there but his legs were stiff and his ass was numb. When he finally got to his feet, he couldn't stop staring at Sam's tattoo. Missed Sam reaching out. Swallowed, hard, when Sam drew his fingertip over the reddening skin around the glistening edge of the cream.

***

"Keep the cream on it, don't scratch it, and if you've got your shirts off, you might as well leave it open to the air. It'll heal faster." Liz finished taping down the gauze pad and stepped back. "No kinky shit for a while and if you're heading into a fight, for fucksake cover it first."

"Define kinky shit," Dean muttered.

"Dean..."

Liz's eyes gleamed. "You really want me to do that, boy?"

"We need to talk about payment," Sam told her, shooting Dean a distinctly warning glare and pulling on his shirt.

She picked a familiar book up off the table and handed it to him. "No charge."

He froze. "Then it didn't work?"

"It worked. You're as protected against possession as anyone can be."

Frowning, he shook his head. "Then you have to be paid. This kind of thing, it doesn't come for nothing and if we don't pay..."

"You'll owe me." She sighed, looked up at Sam and over at Dean, her expression as close to kind as Dean had ever seen it. "You two could use a couple of liens on your souls that come from the right side of the line. Might help to balance things a bit. Now, get the hell out of here. I'm an old woman and I need my sleep." Waving both hands, she herded them toward the door and out into the cool desert night.

One foot over the threshold, Sam turned, bent, and kissed her cheek while Dean stared at him in astonishment. "Thank you."

***

"Do they know, Nana?" Helen asked as Liz came back into the kitchen. "Do they know we inked them with the other's blood?"

Liz smiled. "Sam does."

***

"Tomorrow we're on the road again. We're finding a hunt and we're kicking some demonic ass."

"Fine. Don't scratch at it."

"I'm not."

"Don't rub it either."

Dean wrapped both hands around the steering wheel and scowled out along the path of the headlights, muttering, "Should have just had property of Sam Winchester tattooed on my ass."

Slouching down in the seat, Sam put his knees up on the dash and grinned. "Bit redundant don't you think?"

"How do you figure? And stop stretching the seat belt!"

"Well..." He shifted position until Dean grunted his approval. "...put it on your ass I'm the only one who'll ever see it and it's nothing I don't already know. You should get it tattooed on your forehead. Ow! Let go of my nipple! Dean! That counts as kinky shit..."

-end-


End file.
